


Another Chance To See the Dawn

by avianscribe



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Final Fantasy XV Spoilers, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Post-Canon, Resurrection, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avianscribe/pseuds/avianscribe
Summary: He wakes with no memory of who he is or why he is laid in state as though for a funeral...





	Another Chance To See the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little experiment that I ended up liking enough to share. I was trying a number of different things, and I hope it pleases!

He gasped and opened his eyes.

Bright. The world was too bright. He closed his eyes and took a couple more experimental breaths, feeling his lungs expand. His diaphragm felt stiff, as though it hadn't been working for a while. His heart thumped in his chest, reminding itself how to beat.

The hard stone beneath his back held no warmth, but neither did he. That slowly changed; while he lay there getting his bearings, the chill in his chest faded.

He couldn't recall how he’d gotten here. His only memory before waking was of light, and the shadow of a blue fox.

That… couldn't be right.

He opened his eyes again.

The light no longer blinded him. Sunbeams filtered in through tall windows and a gaping hole in the wall behind him, but the light didn't quite reach the vaulted ceiling. His gaze lingered on the gleam of dust motes floating golden above him as he tried to muster his sluggish thoughts.

He was cold.

He shifted his head and saw, to his left, two staircases (one covered with rubble) curving upward towards a dais, and there… a throne, its velvet back marred in the center as though something had pierced it through. He puzzled at that. Who would keep a throne in such a state? But it was a small detail in a world of perplexing things.

He could remember nothing.

The warmth growing inside him finally spread to his limbs. His whole body felt as though it hadn't moved in days. Maybe it hadn't. Something heavy lay on his chest, and his hands lay folded over it -- the leather grip of a sword hilt? He tried to feel it and found that he could move his fingers. But when he attempted to grasp the sword and lift it off his chest, his hands were too weak to hold its weight. The sword shifted out of his grip and clattered to the side.

He exhaled, a soft puff… then decided to risk sitting up. He levered himself on his elbows, letting out a hiss when unused muscles complained. But in the end, he was sitting up and able to see.

The audience hall around him was empty. He was fully dressed in a sharp pin-striped suit, and lay on a raised marble platform, almost like an altar. His shoes shone in the sunlight as though someone had polished them that very morning. A cluster of dried roses was pinned to his lapel. At the platform’s ends, by his head and feet, wrought-iron stands held burning candles as thick as his arm. Trailing up the side of the altar was an overflowing pile of things -- wrapped gifts, wreaths of dried vines, bouquets of the fanciest crepe-paper flowers, stuffed moogles and chocobos.

At the bottom of the pile, where it had finally come to rest, lay the blade -- ornate, with an engine weirdly incorporated into the hilt.

He stared at it, trying to make sense of it all.

In his musing, he failed to notice a door opening on the other end of the room. Failed to notice the steady tread of boots striding halfway through the room, where they faltered to a stop. He did hear the whisper.

“N-noct…”

He looked up.

A grand staircase descended before the altar, and at the foot of it now stood a man in a black calf-length coat and knee-high combat boots. The man’s chin, with a scruff of a beard, had dropped. Beneath upswept blonde hair, eyes opened wide as saucers. The emotion in them seemed to be shock, grief, and wonder all at once.

The blonde man took a halting step, and then another… and then was ascending the staircase two steps at a time. The man slowed and then stopped in front of the altar, peering into his face. “Noct…!” the man said, eyes filling with tears. “How…?”

“I…” he started, but his throat was raspy with disuse. He coughed. “Mmm.” That was better. “I... can’t remember.”

Tears overflowed the blonde man’s eyes now. The man reached an arm out, hand hesitating just before it made contact. Then he was pulled into a fierce hug, his breath pushed out of him as the blonde man squeezed him. He didn’t quite know what to do, where to put his hands. He finally left them at his sides, gripping the edge of the altar, to support the weight of the blonde man leaning into him.

The man sobbed into his shoulder for a long time, and he bore it, not knowing what else to do. Finally the man drew back, set hands on his shoulders, and peered into his face with red-rimmed eyes. “You died. I saw you… on the throne...” Voice cracking, the man almost started crying again, but bit his lip instead. “Is this a dream?”

He didn’t know what to say. He clearly meant something to this man, but… he could remember nothing. The man’s features didn’t even look familiar -- but the emotion there was real. He opened his mouth. “Who… am I?” he asked.

The blonde man’s breath hitched. “You… you _really_ can’t remember.” Misery flooded the man's face.

He shook his head and looked around the room. “Where is this place? Why am I here?”

“You…” the blonde man hesitated and stepped back, then turned at the sound of the door at the end of the hall opening again.

Another man entered -- dressed identically to the blonde man before him, but taller, brown hair styled up in a pompadour, carrying a cane that swung back and forth with each step. The new man tilted his head, listening. “Prompto?” he said. “I heard something. Is everything all right? We were about to open the doors to the public.”

“We have a problem,” the blonde man said, voice wavering.

The new man -- blind, it was clear; behind a pair of shades, the left side of his face was horrifically scarred -- pursed his lips. “Do you mind telling me what it is?”

“Just… go get Gladio and come back quick,” the blonde man -- Prompto? -- said, and then looked back at him.

He exhaled -- a mere sigh, a slight huff -- but the blind man cocked his head. “Who is that?” he said, his voice urgent.

“It’s… it’s Noct,” Prompto said, almost a whisper.

The blind man’s sudden intake of breath echoed in the room. “Noct…?” he breathed.

The door behind them opened again, and this time admitted a tall, broad, long-haired man who, even with the matching uniform, looked like hired muscle down to his ponytail. The man strode in and grumbled, “Everything’s ready, Iggy; why are we…” The man looked up, met his eyes, and froze. The scarred face turned ashen.

"You're alive…” The tall man’s face crumpled, and then the rest of his huge form, as though his legs had given out. This massive, muscled man dropped to one knee and leaned fists on the floor. Among several soft muffled sounds came the word “Majesty.”

The blind man -- Iggy? -- shook his head and breathed “Impossible.”

The three of them turned their faces to him, all of them painted with sorrow and wonder.

He gripped the altar beneath him. “Who _am_ I?” he croaked again.

The blind man’s breath caught when he inhaled. “The Lightbringer,” he said. “You banished the Immortal Accursed and cleansed the Star of its Scourge.”

The muscled man stood, his face pinched with pain and guilt. “My King,” he said. “I failed you and you died.”

The blonde man ducked his head, tears flowing freely down his face. “My friend,” he said. “You were always my friend.”

He blinked at them, taking in their combined anguish and reverence with confusion. He turned his head to the sunlight, streaming through the hole in the wall, and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth. His skin hungered for the sun as though he had not felt it in an age. He turned back to the three men who faced him. None of their words triggered his memory… but they still tugged at something deep in his heart. Something he yearned for, something he longed to discover.

“Help me remember,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> After 10 years of darkness, there would likely be no fresh flowers for a funeral, even for a king -- but they might find some dried ones. ^_^
> 
> I reblog writing stuff on Tumblr [@avianscribe](http://avianscribe.tumblr.com)!


End file.
